


Where He Dared Stand or Where He Dared Walk

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-07-08 19:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “I don’t know what to do,” Grif says with a waver in his voice. The irony doesn’t escape Locus when he recognizes the raw despair in his eyes. “You do, right? I need you to tell me what to do.”The words ‘how unfortunate’ rest on Locus’ tongue, and a bitter taste spreads in his mouth when he bites them back.The lives of Grif and Locus are intertwined by acts of mercy.





	1. sitting is such a dull business

**Then:**

“Christ, you are slow,” Isaac says over the radio. “I’ve finished my recon. How far are you?”

That’s a lie. Either that, or he’s rushed through the reconnaissance. Neither would surprise Sam.

“Halfway,” he answers. “What did you find?”

“Bodies. So nothing. Just like I said. So why are you being such a goddamn turtle?”

“Captain Cesana said to search for survivors,” Sam says and crouches by another set of still armor. The thermograph has already revealed it to be a corpse, but something could be overlooked. Sam doesn’t count on luck; he knows better than to do so. But he won’t deny its existence.

They might have missed something.

And Isaac, in his hurry, won’t be the one to find it.

“He _said_ that. But he wants this shitshow of a mission over with, too. He knows there aren’t any survivors.”

There’s blood sticking to Sam’s boots. He doesn’t try to wipe it off.

Uplora is a small planet. The colony is quickly deemed as unimportant compared to bigger settlements in the quadrant. Captain Cesana didn’t even mention its presence on their radar. Not until the S.O.S.

“And I’m just fine with that,” Isaac continues. Without anything else to do, he has all the time the talk. And Sam has no choice but to listen. “Because the sooner we’re done with this place, the sooner we can get to the Vesta Terminal.”

Something red flickers in the edge of his HUD. Sam turns towards the color.

The sight of mangled bodies stopped being a sight of horror years ago. It’s merely a sight now, something to be analyzed. He recognizes the garbled tears in armor plates, the evidence of alien claws. He knows how they attack, how they will rush a planet and go for the strongest points first. He knows him to defend himself.

These soldiers did not.

“Reed says this contract will beat the shit out of any military payroll. We’re going to get so rich-“

“There’s a survivor.”

Isaac goes quiet for a second; then the silence is broken by a string of curses.

Sam does not listen. He is focusing on the red dot in the distance. It moves, stumbles. It’s alive. From here, it seems small.

“Shoot him,” Isaac orders over the radio.

Sam has not let go of his rifle since they landed on the planet. He knows what pain the enemy can inflict. By keeping his finger on the trigger, he resists the urge to reach up and touch the healing slashes across his face. “What?”

The red splotch is stumbling towards him, tripping and falling in his desperation.

“Survivor is another word for paperwork,” Isaac’s voice says without wavering. There’s a sound of something cracking, and Sam pictures skulls and bones and heavy boots. Then he focuses on the survivor ahead of him; red and alive. “A dead planet is easy to write home about. Aliens did it. No one expects anything else. A survivor means a fucking witness investigation, authorities stepping in, way too much fucking bullshit.”

It is easy to deduce what happened here. Even before they’d landed their ship, they’d had their answers. The colony is dead, killed by aliens, presumable Elites, who’d stumbled upon it in their path. The colony had been undermanned, lacked proper resources. Forgotten.

It’s a simple story. Not many questions will be asked. It’s not the first colony that has died. No one will ever question the cruelty of alien species.

No one will need to know how Captain Cesana had ordered for them to shoot at the alien that had stumbled into their patrol the week before, failing to communicate.

There’d been no fear of retaliation.

No one had thought of Uplora.

“Protocol says-“

“Think about what Cesana wants,” Isaac says. The distance between them shields Sam from his face, but there is nothing to stop him from imagining Isaac’s expression. He knows him too well. He knows that Isaac is getting irritated, that his nostrils have begun to flare while his voice stays smooth. “Do you think he wants a full-blown investigation that’ll take days before they have some proper answers from some messed up half-dead soldier? Or do you think he wants to be done with this shithole and get it over with? Try to really think about which thing would bring a smile to his face. And think about how much I’ll smile when we actually get to fucking Vesta Terminal.”

The survivor has stumbled his way to Sam’s feet. There, he trips and falls to his knees. Without a helmet, his dark, long hair – tangled and slick with grease – shields his lowered head.

Sam has to crouch to gain eye-contact.

The man’s eyes are dark and wild, glazed over with desperation and exhaustion. Sam sees the uncertainty, too; a hope, or fear, for this to be real.

This man has been alone on this planet for too long.

But this man is still alive.

His radio screeches into his ear.

“Sam, don’t you fucking da-“

Samuel Ortez extends a hand.

Dexter Grif takes it.

* * *

“Good job, Sam,” Isaac growls, later, when the survivor has been brought to a medical station to be stabilized, and their patrol has been ordered to wait. “Good fucking job. You saved the coward.”

Sam does not care for cowardice. He does not care for heroism, either. He wants to see a work done, orders fulfilled. This soldier had done neither when he’d hid himself in a closet.

He’d sounded apologetic in his ramblings when they’d asked him what had taken place. That does not change his actions.

But he is no longer in Sam’s hands. He only had to report his survival and drag him to the rendezvous.

“He really deserved your mercy, huh,” Isaac continues to spit. His eyes are narrowed. “Slept in a closet while the rest of this place got fucked over. Such a good thing you didn’t waste a bullet on him. Really worth missing Reed’s offer.”

Sam turns his head away. Regrets are not worth spending his time on. Not when they can’t be changed. Not when he doesn’t feel ashamed for his decision.

“We’re going to be late,” Isaac hisses and moves to stand in his field of vision. He will not be ignored. Not when he’s angry.

“I know.”

“I’m trying to make things better for both of us.” Isaac clenches his hands. “With your goddamn authority kink-“

A growl leaves Sam’s throat. Isaac, even when angered, has lines that should not be crossed.

Isaac laughs hollowly. “Fine. I won’t call it that. But I’m just saying that when you want to follow orders to the letter, we should at least make sure that they’re rewarding.”

There’s a new life waiting for them. One outside the military.

Sam has a growing feeling that this man will be the last person he will save for a long time.

“Don’t hesitate pulling the trigger next time,” Isaac tells him.

Sam meets his glance without blinking. “I won’t.”

Later, on Chorus, when Locus reads the Sim Troopers’ files to search for weaknesses to exploit, he will read the description of Uplora in Dexter Grif’s file, and he will remember.

Dexter Grif will not.

* * *

**Now:**

“Thank you,” Grif says when Locus hands him a lukewarm MRE. He’s hungry, Locus can tell, with weeks of neglect etched into his face.

His plan is to save the Reds and Blues, and so he must ensure that Dexter Grif lives, too. He can give him food and water, and force him to sleep, but now when the man’s helmet is off, Locus wishes he could give him a bath as well. The smell is tearing his nostrils. But while they stay in A'rynasea, a shower won’t be possible.

“So what’s with the whole being a good guy thing?” Grif asks him with his mouth full. “Do you wanna be Batman? Is that why you don’t kill people? Is that hard? Is there some sort of withdrawal? Do you still want to kill people?”

“No.”

A trail of brown is left across his cheek when Grif wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good,” he says, chewing with his mouth open. “I was afraid this was like my last meal or something. That’d suck but this is weird. You’re weird. You’re being _nice_.”

It’s been a long time since anyone has been nice to Dexter Grif.

Locus hasn’t killed him. He hasn’t hurt him. He’s made promises instead, some he fears he can’t keep.

He turns his head away. “I suppose.”

“You tried to kill us once.”

He won’t deny that. He won’t forget, either. “Yes.”

Grif’s mismatched eyes – they’d been brown back in Uplora; Locus remembers the desperation in them – squint. They’re still honest, however, filled with raw emotion that Locus wishes he could ignore. “Am I hallucinating?”

The head of the robot, carefully resting on the control board, surrounded by volleyballs, sighs. “Si solamente.” [If only.]

“Have you suffered from hallucinations?” Locus asks him. The man is ill, obviously. Locus does his best to ignore the presence of the volleyballs.

“Sure! Maybe. I don’t know.” Grif lets go of his plate to reach for a ball instead; the one with tinfoil and maroon paint. His brows furrow as he holds it tenderly against his chest. “I’m pretty sure Simmons isn’t a volleyball.”

“…Correct.”

“Huh.” The man’s fingers stroke the volleyball. Its leather is comforting. It’s familiar and well-worn after weeks – maybe months, he isn’t sure – of comfort. Grif can see his own fingerprint on the maroon paint. He stares into the color as he says, “It felt real. Sometimes. I dunno. I think I just missed them. Don’t tell them that.”

“I won’t.”

“They haven’t missed me,” Grif says, and the truth doesn’t hurt any longer. It’s a weight, heavy and unforgiving, but it already has a nesting place on his chest. It belongs with him. “Isn’t that right, Lopez?”

“No me creerías si te dijera la verdad. ¿Entonces, para qué molestarse?” [You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth. So why bother?]

“Don’t mess with my head. Not now. I don’t- Don’t do that.” Grif clutches the volleyball tighter and closes his eyes as he controls his breathing. He’s seen Wash teach Tucker how to calm down. Hyperventilating – and nightmares and traumas and all that sort of bullshit – are Blue troubles. It’s too dramatic; it doesn’t fit him. When his breathing is even again, he tilts his head to look up at Locus. “If you leave, can I make a volleyball of you?”

“Eat,” Locus orders and gestures towards the half-empty plate. There’s a set of goals he has to follow now; make Dexter Grif eat, drink, sleep, and keep him alive during tomorrow’s battle. He cannot afford to fail.

Grif almost jumps at the sight of the food waiting for him. Usually it’d be gone within his first minute of eating.

That’s one of his few strengths: eating and sleeping. He’d been good at those things. Now he is losing that, too.

“Oh. Right.” He blinks and puts Simmons – _not-Simmons_ – away in favor of his dinner. “Seriously, though. ‘bout that volleyball-”

“We’re in my ship. Where should I go?”

“I dunno,” Grif says and shrugs. The room is very small; and quiet, when no one else is speaking. “It’s a nice ship. I wish I had a ship like this. Then I could have followed the others when they left. But I would probably have crashed it. I do that a lot. Have you ever crashed a ship? Where did you even get it? Was it expensive? Or did you buy it on sale? Can intergalactic war criminals even buy stuff?”

“It was a gift.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Grif says and tries to remember the last time he received a gift. The best he can come up with are those gift-wrapped hand grenades Sarge would give him after pulling the pin. “Where did you go after Chorus? Do you have family to visit? Or family to avoid? Did you stay on Chorus? Like, invisible? Wait, were you the one who ate my snack stash? Or was I right to yell at Bitters? Because that bitch had it-“

Locus reaches out to readjust the ship’s radar. His hand knocks over the red-painted volleyball in the process. “I left when I could.”

“Were you on Chorus when the temple activated?” Grif asks him. The sudden burst of curiosity is a welcome warmth that has him leaning forward in his seat. It’s energy, like the methshrooms back on Iris. It helps keep up the heavy eyelids. It makes it easier to forget.

“Which temple?”

“The one that makes you fuck.”

Locus chokes on dry air.

“I fucked Simmons in a closet,” Grif continues. He cannot feel his lips; they move by himself.

Locus squirms in his seat. He thinks of Felix, and how he’d never miss the chance to fire a bullet. Sparing a life, Locus realizes, can bring you in strange situations.

This one is not exactly welcome.

Grif’s excitement is replaced with dread, and he sinks deeper into his seat. “I’m not supposed to talk about that,” he says. The realization hits him when the words leave his mouth.

“Then let us stop talking,” Locus suggests. His voice is strained.

“I want to talk about it.”

“Haz que se detenga.” [Make him stop.]

“Not with you,” Grif says. He wants to snort, but the noise comes out sounding sad. “Every time I mention it, Simmons tells me to shut up. And I don’t get it, because I had an amazing night. So good. One of the best in my life. Did you know Simmons is a top?”

Locus knows never to beg.

But he’s also learning to choose his battles.

“Please stop,” he pleads.

“I’m just saying that if there’s a dozen women out there who are willingly admitting to having sex with Tucker, Simmons should at least be capable of looking me without flinching.” But it’s there; the look of shame in Simmons’ eyes. He can never hide it in time whenever the subject is brought up. Grif wishes it’d stop hurting. But he hasn’t received the look in a long time now. Because Simmons hasn’t been there. “…Or am I that bad? I probably am-“

“Captain Grif,” Locus says, voice stern to ensure he has his attention. “I am here because I am trying to make things right. I will save your friend, and I brought you along to assist in this endeavor. I am _not_ your therapist. You will _not_ tell me about your sex life.”

“…Does that mean that yours isn’t excluded-“

“¿Eres suicida?” [Are you suicidal?]

“Stop talking,” Locus says. His hands keep clenching, as if his fingers squeeze invisible triggers. “Go to sleep.”

Grif sits up straight in his seat. His muscles protests, but not his heart that beats faster at the thought. He’s here for a reason. Maybe. He’s here to help, not to sleep-

Too much sleeping, too much eating, is what got him abandoned in the first place.

“But-“

“You’re delirious,” Locus tells him. “You lack control in your actions and choices. If you want to be a part of the infiltration, you need to prepare yourself.”

Grif is confused about a lot of things, but not that; he needs to be there. He needs to save Simmons and the others, and he needs them to know that he saved them.

There’s only a moment of hesitation before he lets himself slink back into his seat. With his eyes half-closed, the view of the space has been reduced to white splotches against a black canvas. “Am I crazy?”

“Presumably,” Locus answers him.

Grif breathes in heavily. “…Can I be not crazy again?” he asks the man who once tried to kill him. “You were crazy, right? Or at least psychopathic? Or sociopathic. I can never remember the difference. You killed a batshit lot of people. That’s- that’s crazy. But you’re good now.”

Grif’s statement doesn’t come out as a question.

This trust is a new object for Locus to handle. It’s fragile, and he believes he will break it.

“Sleep,” he says and is pleasantly surprised when Grif follows orders right away.

The orange soldier rests his face against the leather of the seat. He curls his body closer to himself, much like a cat trying to find a comfortable spot. He keeps the maroon volleyball in his lap. “If I snore, don’t wake me up,” he says, voice muffled.

Ten minutes later, when Grif’s snores are echoing against the walls of A'rynasea like a thunderstorm, Locus sets his jaw.

“Apuesto a que ahora estás lamentando esa promesa.” [I bet you are regretting that promise now.]

The robot curses in Spanish when Locus flings it to the back of the ship.

* * *

“I don’t know what to do,” Grif says with a waver in his voice. The irony doesn’t escape Locus when he recognizes the raw despair in his eyes. “You do, right? I need you to tell me what to do.”

The words ‘how unfortunate’ rest on Locus’ tongue, and a bitter taste spreads in his mouth when he bites them back.

“I’m not going to use you as a meat shield,” he finally says. The sun of Desert Gulch glares down on them, and Locus feels more uncomfortable by the second. They need cover. They need to move.

Whenever he takes a step, Grif stays right against him. His hands are holding the robot, and Locus can feel its angry glare through the visor. It keeps Grif’s hands full after Locus ordered him to leave the volleyballs behind in the ship.

“But I’m good at that,” Grif insists. He’s still alive, however, no matter how many bad plans he’s been a part of.

He’s alive because Locus didn’t pull the trigger back then.

“This is not a suicide mission.”

“But-“

“I came to save the Reds and Blues. As far as I’m concerned, you belong to that group.”

That’s where he’s wrong. Grif wants to believe him. That’d be a much needed comfort. But while he might be stupid, he isn’t _that_ stupid. Not when his last words to the group were ‘I quit’.

But if Locus is turning a new leaf, so is Grif.

He can do better. He has to. But that doesn’t change the past. It’s a fact they’re both painfully aware of.

“But I qui-“

“I will leave you in the ship,” Locus threatens him. It’s not an empty threat; not when he’s in charge of keeping Grif alive. His rescue won’t mean much if the orange soldier ends up dead in the process.

But he doesn’t expect the Reds and Blues to forgive him.

Neither does Grif.

The threat has him standing still, back straight. Behind his visor, Locus is sure that his eyes have the same lost look in them, like back in Uplora when he didn’t trust his surroundings enough to hope for a rescue. He’d just looked up at Locus – or Sam, as he’d been back then – and waited for him to make a decision.

“I can do it,” Grif says. This time his voice does not waver.

Locus has no choice but to believe him. “Good.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What if you get lost?” Grif worries. “Or we lose you? Because you’re invisible and we can’t find you-“

“I can turn it off.”

“Oh. That’s neat.” Grif breathes in. The sound seems to echo in the silent gulch. “I’ll see you again.”

“Yes.”

The elevator is where Lopez described it to be, hidden by a cliff wall. The moment they step inside the metal box, Locus lets himself disappear. Surveillance might spot Grif already, but that’s the plan. He’s ready for the consequences that will follow.

The blinding sun is replaced by darkness as the elevator drops.

The ride towards the lair is long enough for Grif to become restless again.

He shifts the weight on his feet and presses Lopez against his chest. “This is me,” he says into the darkness. “Entering the secret lair. Real sneaky. Just talking to myself. Because I’m crazy. Not talking to anyone else. Just myself. To wish myself good luck. _Good luck_.”

“Suave.” [Smooth.]

He cannot see Locus, but he knows that he turns to the right, while Grif heads left. The hallways are darkened by the water that looms above him like an awaiting threat. It casts shadows that make him jump.

He shouldn’t be nervous. He knows that. He’s supposed to be caught. He isn’t supposed to avoid it.

Stupid instincts, Grif thinks and curses all the trauma the army life has shoved in his face. It’s difficult not to jump when you lost half a squad to snipers once.

“It’s going to be fine, Lopez,” Grif says. His voice bounces against metal walls. Something is dripping somewhere. “We are going to see the others again. And Simmons. Simmons is a part of the others. How mad were they again? It’s fine, they’re fine. We’re gonna be fine. I’ll save them, and they can be mad, but when I save them they’ll know-“

Something creaks. It groans, then, and whispers follow it. There’s a growl far away, dull and muffled.

It’s not real, Grif thinks and closes his eyes. He’s paranoid after months of believing he’ll die alone. The noises are shadows. They’re illusions. They’re not real. It’s okay. He’s supposed to be in danger, after all.

The lights above him begins the flicker, and the rest of the hallway is swallowed by darkness. Like a horror movie. Simmons would scream like a girl, he thinks.

He wants to move but his legs are too heavy. They’re metal, stuck to the floor.

But the others are in there, somewhere, in the darkness. Simmons is in there, Grif thinks and takes the first step.

The growl grows larger.

Grif opens his mouth, and then an invisible hand tightens around his biceps. Locus’ strength is unforgiving as he pulls Grif back towards the elevator. The orange soldier trips, but the grip doesn’t falter, and he is dragged along like a limp sack.

The sheer force has his hands lose their hold on Lopez, and the head falls to the floor. It bounces once, and the sound of metal hitting metal is drowned out by the growl.

“Lo-“ Grif says but the name dies as he looks up and sees the cracks spreading in the glass. They’re racing towards them, reaching for them like arms going for an embrace.

The growl is water, Grif realizes dully, and then he’s thrown against the back of the elevator.

Before the door closes, they catch a glimpse of the glass caving in for the pressure. The water doesn’t crawl. It flies. It’s reaching-

Inside the darkness of the elevator they can hear the loud thump. The groans of metal continue as they retreat to the surface. The growl dies.

When the sun shines on them again, Locus lets himself become visible. He inhales. His body does not shake.

He turns around and looks down.

Grif is on the floor. His hands are still outstretched. Reaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another WIP? I suck, I know, but inspiration hit me and this thing will only have four chapters so it's under control.
> 
> Also, did you see that happy ending tag?
> 
> The title (and the chapter title) are from "The Ugly Duckling" by H.C. Andersen. The reasons for this is actually kinda weird - do you guys remember 'That's a Frightfully Big Duckling' - my first Grif and Locus fic? Anyway, back then I played with the idea of a sequel so I had the 'Where He Dared Stand or Where He Dared Walk' title resting in my documents for two years, but here we finally are!
> 
> I hope you're excited for this fic!


	2. at last the eggshells began to crack

**Then:**

Dexter Grif is going to die. He knows that as a fact, and the realization makes his bones ache with every thump of the moving train.

It is his own fault. That’s probably the worst part of the whole ordeal, maybe next to the actual dying part.

Gold Team had been sent out to scour a train station, a perfect shelter from the constant snow, underground and abandoned, and that had been nothing new. Everything on Chorus is abandoned and old.

Grif had sent Bitters and Matthews in first, and after they’d returned to let him know that there were no bats, the entire group had moved inside. Gold Team isn’t a big group, and Grif is just fine with that. Why be responsible for even more lives?

They’d split up to cover the area, and occasionally his soldiers would call him to tell him they’d found another medkit or a functional battery or whatever. Trash, mostly. But that was what they had to live off for now.

Grif had chosen to explore the train.

Right now, he can curse that choice. He can call himself an idiot. He can pull a Simmons and have a panic attack. But none of that will help him.

He’d chosen the train all for himself because he’d spotted the broken vending machine just inside the nearest cart. And he’d thought, naturally, I’m willing to die for some chocolate.

Now he’s not so sure.

But he hadn’t counted on dying.

(Maybe that is his real mistake because they’re on Chorus and people die here. All the time. This is a real war, Dexter Grif.)

The train had come to life with a sudden jerk, causing him to fall against the machine. His armored elbow had gone through the glass that had shattered and spread at his feet. Voices had reacted from the other end of the train, and Grif had panicked and moved to a corner, hidden behind the crates.

Even now, looking through the tinted windows and seeing the silhouettes of snowflakes, he still thinks of jumping off. But that’s death and that’s bad, but being caught is also death, just _worse_.

It’s his own fault, he knows that, but how was he supposed to know _this_?

How was he supposed to know that pirates had arrived in the station before them?

How was he supposed to know that they’d been working on getting the train going?

Crouched behind the metal crate, using the few skills he has, Grif stays hidden and tries to decide whether or not to call Simmons. And the others, of course. Simmons and the others.

But that would require movement – finger pressed against the side of his helmet – and at this point, he doesn’t dare to move his arms. Or legs or any of his limbs. The pirates are roaming around, searching, coming closer, closer…

There is hope. Grif tells himself that.

Gold Team, idiotic as they might be, have enough brain to notice two things: one) the train freaking rolled away, and two) their captain is missing.

They would send out an alarm.

And then there’s the second hope. The one that makes his stomach feel all squeezy and warm: Simmons never uninstalled the tracker in his armor.

As long as his HUD stays online, Simmons will know.

Simmons can see him, Grif tells himself. He’s a red little moving dot inside Simmons’ visor, and wherever Grif goes, Simmons will follow. It’s a law of nature and all that. At least, that’s what Tucker calls it.

But on the other hand, Tucker is an asshole.

The door to his cart is slammed open, and the loud noise of heavy boots against the floor fills the enclosed space. Grif holds his breath and his fingers inch towards the rifle resting by his side.

He thinks: they will find me.

He thinks: Simmons will know.

Grif inhales.

A boot breaks his visor before he manages to raise his weapon.

* * *

Felix is on the other side of the planet, preparing the next ambush, so Locus is the one to respond to the call.

It isn’t planned. They’d tasked their men to secure the train for gear and future uses. The captain trapped inside is unexpected.

A treat, Felix had called it, to be taken and exploited.

The men salute him as he walks past them. One of them points in the direction of the prisoner and laughs. The snow has already covered the path of boot tracks leading to the shadow of the train where the captain is tied up.

He is difficult to recognize from a distance. Dexter Grif. They’ve taken away his armor, leaving nothing of orange on him. It’s just a black bundle waiting for him.

They’ve left him kneeling. Locus comes to a half and stares down at him. He remembers a time where Dexter Grif had been sitting helplessly in front of him. He’d been left to die. Samuel Ortez had offered him a hand. Dexter Grif had taken it.

Dexter Grif stares up at him.

Their eyes meet. His are bloodshot, one of them almost too swollen to open. Just a little sliver left to reveal the red. His chin is swallowed too. There are gashes on his cheeks from where the visor must have shattered.

His shoulders are hunched, trembling. Without the armor, he is exposed to the cold. In the piles of snow surrounding him, Locus spots splotches of yellow; remains of the humiliation the soldiers have put the battered captain through.

They are angry. They are vibrating with violence. They want to kill him, but they had told them no. A single Sim Trooper is useful against the remaining ones. He will die, yes, but not until he has fulfilled this use.

Locus looks down and sees a doomed man.

Dexter Grif knows he is going to die. Locus can see that; he can tell from the haunted glare. Like an animal to the slaughterhouse, Felix would say, but that analogy is wrong. Animals do not know their fate. Their fear comes from panic and confusion.

Dexter Grif knows what will come next. There is a sense of content with this realization. Fear, too, but not for the present. Like a falling man, knowing he is doomed, awaiting the fatal impact.

His lips are blue, matching the rings around his eyes. Dexter Grif’s body shakes in one big tremor, and then his head grows too heavy, and he lets it fall.

Snowflakes melt on Locus’ visor as he stares.

The man jumps in surprise when Locus turns towards him. “Give him back his armor,” Locus says. “The order was to leave him alive. To have him freeze to death would be considered a failure.”

Dexter Grif looks up at him, one eye wide open in shock, expression melting into one of gratefulness.

Locus wonders if he remembers. He walks away.

Locus is that he has saved Dexter Grif for an untimely death. Death will come, as they have been ordered. Maybe it’s not a mercy. But maybe Dexter Grif would prefer to be executed alongside his companions rather than freeze to death in pee-stained snow.

Locus is unaware of the tracker that, later that day, will lead Dexter Grif’s friends to come for a rescue.

* * *

**Now:**

The plan is to drop Grif off on Chorus. Grif has not objected to that. But he hasn’t said much after the incident.

Right now, he’s resting in the seat next to him. Locus can simply turn his head and check on him. A quick glance would say that he is asleep, however, Locus takes note of the breathing – too quick to pass for sleep – and the shoulders – still trembling.

Locus does not disturb him.

He sets the coordinates for Chorus and stays quiet during the entire ride. When Grif occasionally makes a pained sound, he chooses to ignore it.

If he cannot fix it, it’s best to leave it alone. What comfort can he give a grieving captain? He failed the mission, and the Reds and Blues, all of them, suffered from it.

In what way can he help Dexter Grif now?

Chorus is what Grif has left, and Locus will hand him to the doctor. He knows her, knows her skills. She will bring Grif back from this brink of insanity.

Chorus is the solution, Locus thinks.

Chorus is surrounded by spacecraft. Locus stays at a distance, but even from there he can recognize the logos.

The fleet from the UNSC has formed a blockade.

They are not going to Chorus, then.

Locus does not swear. He stays quiet and turns the ship around, disappearing in the direction they have come from.

He turns his head, waiting for Grif to ask where they are going.

He doesn’t.

One of the volleyballs falls from the controls, and Grif whimpers.

* * *

Locus does not know what the planet is called. What he does know is that it is abandoned by the rest of the world, that it is small, that no one else but him resides on it.

With the exception of Grif, he supposes.

He doesn’t call it home. It isn’t a home. It’s a base, used as a retreat between leads. A safe spot, he supposes. He doesn’t have a home. He hasn’t had one in a long time.

He’s made a shelter in the old radio tower. The metal walls shield them from the warm wind. He is yet to encounter hostile wildlife.

Locus lets Grif have the single mattress, and the Captain curls up on it like a toddler comforting itself in an embrace.

Locus searches his storage of MREs next and heats up two. He opens them and lets the smell fill the small space. Grif doesn’t uncurl.

“Eat,” Locus says. Grif doesn’t respond. “You cannot avenge your teammates if you are dead,” he says next.

Grif stays silent. He doesn’t eat.

* * *

On the second day, Locus forces him to swallow the food. “It would be a waste to throw them out,” he says. “I do not have enough to allow you to waste it.”

Grif sits up. Despite having spent the last 24 hours in bed, he doesn’t seem to have slept. He inhales the steam from the meal.

“It’s for you,” Locus repeats.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Dexter Grif eats, and Locus still feels lost.

* * *

On the fifth day, Locus hauls Grif towards the river. The water is warm and calm as always.

“Reminds me of Hawaii,” Grif says. He doesn’t sound happy about it.

After the shower, Grif’s smell doesn’t fill the tower. Locus inhales and works on the controls. He wants the system to light up. For once, he wishes for contact with the outside world.

He needs the news. He needs to track down the Blues and Reds.

There are two things he can do to make things right, he realizes. And he knows that is his purpose. To make things right.

He can find the Blues and Reds and bring them to justice.

And he can keep the remaining captain alive.

Locus watches Grif stare into a wall while holding a volleyball in his arms.

Purpose, Locus thinks.

* * *

On the ninth day, Dexter Grif cracks.

He can hear Locus talking (“Dexter Grif. Grif.”), and he squirms in discomfort before turning away. He doesn’t want to hear it. There is an urge to just reach up and cover his ears, and he can already hear Simmons call him childish. “You need to face your problems at some point,” Simmons would say. “You can’t run from them. You’re too slow, anyway.”

But Simmons is dead, and he won’t say anything to Grif ever again.

“Grif,” Locus says, and then Grif pushes him away with what little strength he has. He doubts Locus can even feel it.

“Go away,” he says. He can’t find enough voice to yell. “It’s your fault- You shouldn’t have wasted time picking me up, you should have gone straight for them, they didn’t need me-“

“Listen to me.” Locus has raised his voice, just a bit, but it’s enough to send a surge of fear through Grif’s body because he still remembers the mercenary pointing his gun at them, how easily he’d killed, how many had fallen to him-

“No,” Grif says. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t _need_ to. He doesn’t have to follow anyone, he doesn’t need to listen to order any longer. He’d said that, said no to more missions, to more orders. He’d said no to his team, he’d stayed behind. It’d been his _choice_.

He shakes his head.

Loud bangs fill the air, and Grif howls when two volleyballs deflate. Then a third. Then a fourth-

“No!” he yells and lunges forward, eyes wide open, ears listening to the sound of air escaping.

An old datapad is shoved into his hands.

Grif jolts before he stares at the broken screen and sees a headline: _Sim Troopers Arrested for Plotting Attack Against the UNSC._

And the subheading: _Heroes Turned Villains_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short, i know, but better than nothing after half a year

**Author's Note:**

> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me on tumblr and twitter as RiaTheDreamer


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